When the streets of high Dunedin Saw lances gleam, and falchions redden,

And heard the slogan's deadly yellThen the Chief of Branksome fell.

VIII.

Can piety the discord heal,

Or stanch the death-feud's enmity? Can Christian lore, can patriot zeal, Can love of blessed charity? No! vainly to each holy shrine,

In mutual pilgrimage, they drew ; Implor'd in vain the grace divine

For chiefs their own red falchions

slew:

While Cessford owns the rule of Carr,
While Ettrick boasts the line of
Scott,

The slaughter'd chiefs, the mortal jar,
The havoc of the feudal war,
Shall never, never be forgot!

IX.

In sorrow o'er Lord Walter's bier

The warlike foresters had bent; And many a flower and many a tear

Old Teviot's maids and matrons lent: But o'er her warrior's bloody bier The Ladye dropp'd nor flower nor tear!

Vengeance, deep-brooding o'er the slain,

Had lock'd the source of softer woe; And burning pride and high disdain Forbade the rising tear to flow; Until, amid his sorrowing clan, Her son lisp'd from the nurse's knee

'And if I live to be a man,

My father's death reveng'd shall be!' Then fast the mother's tears did seek To dew the infant's kindling cheek.

X.

All loose her negligent attire,

All loose her golden hair,

Hung Margaret o'er her slaughter'd sire,

And wept in wild despair. But not alone the bitter tear Had filial grief supplied; For hopeless love and anxious fear Had lent their mingled tide : Nor in her mother's alter'd eye Dar'd she to look for sympathy. Her lover, 'gainst her father's clan, With Carr in arms had stood, When Mathouse-burn to Melrose ran All purple with their blood; And well she knew, her mother dread, Before Lord Cranstoun she should wed, Would see her on her dying bed.

XI.

Of noble race the Ladye came;
Her father was a clerk of fame,

Of Bethune's line of Picardie :
He learn'd the art that none may name,
In Padua, far beyond the sea.
Men said he changed his mortal frame
By feat of magic mystery;
For when, in studious mood, he pac'd
St. Andrew's cloister'd hall,
His form no darkening shadow trac'd
Upon the sunny wall!

XII.

And of his skill, as bards avow,

He taught that Ladye fair,
Till to her bidding she could bow

The viewless forms of air.
And now she sits in secret bower,
In old Lord David's western tower,
And listens to a heavy sound

That moans the mossy turrets round.
Is it the roar of Teviot's tide,
That chafes against the scaur's re
side?

Is it the wind that swings the oaks?
Is it the echo from the rocks?
What may it be, the heavy sound,
That moans old Branksome's turrets

round?

Even bearded knights, in arms grown old,

Share in his frolic gambols bore, Albeit their hearts of rugged mould Were stubborn as the steel they

wore.

For the gray warriors prophesied,

How the brave boy, in future war, Should tame the Unicorn's pride,

Exalt the Crescent and the Star.

XX.

The Ladye forgot her purpose high, One moment, and no more;

One moment gaz'd with a mother's eye,

As she paus'd at the arched door : Then from amid the armed train, She call'd to her William of Deloraine.

XXI.

A stark moss-trooping Scott was he, As e'er couch'd Border lance by knee : Through Solway sands, through Tar

ras moss,

Blindfold, he knew the paths to cross;
By wily turns, by desperate bounds,
Had baffled Percy's best blood-hounds;
In Eske, or Liddel, fords were none,
But he would ride them, one by one;
Alike to him was time or tide,
December's snow, or July's pride;
Alike to him was tide or time,
Moonless midnight, or matin prime :
Steady of heart, and stout of hand,
As ever drove prey from Cumberland;
Five times outlawed had he been,
By England's King, and Scotland's
Queen.

XXII.

'Sir William of Deloraine, good at need,

Mount thee on the wightest steed;
Spare not to spur, nor stint to ride,
Until thou come to fair Tweedside;
And in Melrose's holy pile

Seek thou the Monk of St. Mary's aisle.

XXVIII.

In vain! no torrent, deep or broad, Might bar the bold moss-trooper's road.

XXIX.

At the first plunge the horse sunk low, And the water broke o'er the saddlebow;

Above the foaming tide, I ween, Scarce half the charger's neck was seen;

For he was barded from counter to tail, And the rider was arm'd complete in mail:

Never heavier man and horse
Stemm'd a midnight torrent's force.
The warrior's very plume, I say,
Was daggled by the dashing spray ;
Yet, through good heart, and Our
Ladye's grace,

At length he gain'd the landing-place.

XXX.

Now Bowden Moor the march-man won,

And sternly shook his plumed head, As glanc'd his eye o'er Halidon :

For on his soul the slaughter red
Of that unhallow'd morn arose
When first the Scott and Carr were
foes;

When royal James beheld the fray;
Prize to the victor of the day;
When Home and Douglas, in the van,
Bore down Buccleuch's retiring clan,
Till gallant Cessford's heart-blood dear
Reek'd on dark Elliot's Border spear.

XXXI.

raine,

To ancient Riddel's fair domain, Where Aill, from mountains freed, Down from the lakes did raving come; Each wave was crested with tawny foam,

Like the mane of a chestnut steed.

Old Melros' rose, and fair Tweed ran : Like some tall rock with lichens grey, Seem'd dimly huge the dark Abbaye. When Hawick he pass'd, had curfew